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JE Wolf

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Prompts on PixAI are public by default, but creators can hide them on any artwork they publish. The creator of this one chose to, so the words used to generate the image stay private — only they can see them. Hiding a prompt doesn't change anything else: the artwork is still public, and you can like, comment on and share it as usual.
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1girl, 1boy, two people, walking, walking through castle, escorted, prisoner, former princess, blonde hair, long hair, straight hair, side part, forehead, pale skin, white skin, plump, curvy, thick thighs, soft body, strapless dress, white dress, light blue dress, frills, ribbons, dress ribbon, blue high heels, white thighhighs, high socks, shackles, connected shackles, wrist cuffs, chained wrists, hands bound in front, guard, knight, escorting, silver breastplate, crimson tunic, steel helmet, plumed helmet, halberd, castle interior, stone corridor, from behind, wide shot, dutch angle, looking ahead, looking down, side profile, long shadow, cool light, from behind, wide shot, dutch angle, The camera sits low and behind the pair, tilted a few degrees off plumb so the corridor's stone ribs run diagonally through the frame: the two figures recede down the hall, the woman nearer the lens and slightly left of center, the guard a half step behind and to her right at her shoulder. Her long blonde hair falls loose down her back, a clean side part dividing it at the crown so her forehead and temples are bare above her ear, the mass of it swinging against her shoulder blades with each step. The strapless bodice sits low and level across her chest, cinched snug over a soft, generous figure, and the white-to-light-blue skirt is built of layered frills, each tier edged in ribbon bows that bounce out of step with her stride; from behind, the back lacing and the big sash bow at the small of her back are the brightest thing in the corridor. Her white thigh-high socks end high on the thigh where the skirt lifts, and the blue heels click down on the flagstones, her ankles turning slightly inward on the tall heels so her weight rocks from outer heel to ball with each step. Her hands are held in front of her at waist height, both wrists closed in iron cuffs linked by a short chain, and the chain takes up the sway of her walk: it snaps taut and slackens again, and the cuffs have worn a faint dark line at the base of each thumb. She is not looking back; her chin is lifted and angled toward the tall windows at the corridor's end, gaze fixed on the far doors, mouth set in a flat, closed line, one brow slightly drawn. The guard walks at her right shoulder, taller than she is, his halberd shaft gripped in his right fist and planted with each step while his left hand hovers just behind her elbow, not touching, guiding by proximity; the steel helmet brim shadows his eyes, and his gaze is angled down and forward at the small of her back, checking the pace. His polished breastplate catches the window light in a hard streak down one edge, the crimson tunic dark beneath it. The corridor is a long barrel-vaulted stone gallery: ribbed arches repeating into depth, tall leaded windows on the right wall casting pale shafts across the floor, banners hanging slack in the still air. The light comes only from those windows, cool and diffused, laying two long shadows that stretch ahead of the figures down the flagstones and shortening at the near end; every frill and ribbon on her dress throws its own small shadow onto the skirt. The palette is cool grey stone, the window's pale blue-white, and the dress's white-and-icy-blue burning as the one luminous element, shadowed by the crimson of the guard's tunic and the iron's dull grey. The flagstone seams are washed darker along the path they walk. Cold, ceremonial, quietly tense.
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